


40 Days Of One Night Stands

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, M/M, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	40 Days Of One Night Stands

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sneaker Pimps' "Waterbaby."

Twenty seven hours, twelve minutes.

That's exactly how long it takes for Jim's second -- and even _more_ outrageously unsuccessfully - effort at the _Kobayashi Maru_ to resolve into something other than the absolute but imprecise certainty McCoy has that somehow, at some point, Jim is going to unleash every pent-up ounce of frustration he has over the entire debacle.

Twenty seven hours and twelve minutes of Jim not talking about it, of Jim going on with business as usual as if nothing at all had happened, as if he hadn't suffered a defeat that was easily twice as crushing and decisive as the one that sent him on a three day bender -- which only ended once McCoy finally tracked him down in the back room of a seedy bar thirty kilometers outside the city limits.

That time, he'd fucked McCoy on spit and a prayer over a torn and dusty pool table before agreeing to return home, dry out, and work on getting the hell over it already.

This time, McCoy knows for a fact he's attended all his classes, has been on time to each one, and hasn't set a foot off campus since he stalked out of the simulation center with a quick, "see you later, Bones!" tossed over his shoulder. He does not, however, have the slightest clue what might be going through Jim's head. All he can do is keep general tabs on Jim and wonder.

For twenty seven hours and twelve minutes, at which point Jim finally strolls uninvited into McCoy's room and leans against the wall, watching McCoy silently.

McCoy sets aside his PADD and turns away from his desk to watch Jim right back. Jim's face is calm to the point of unreadable, his eyes clear and bright and focused on McCoy like lasers. "Hey," McCoy finally says. "Okay?"

It's a more complicated question than the sheer simplicity of it would suggest. They both know it, like they both know Jim's failure to answer speaks volumes in and of itself.

"Take your clothes off, Bones," Jim says quietly. His gaze is calculating and expectant, burning with absolute confidence that his instruction will be obeyed.

He carries the fear that it won't be more in his shoulders, of course, in the tension of his frame. McCoy leans back in his seat and lets his mind race, for all of a few seconds, through the possibilities stretching out before him.

If he refuses, Jim will leave. McCoy knows it like he knows his name, like he knows the workings of the human body, like he knows that Jim is as damaged in his ways as McCoy is in his own. Jim will shrug and flash him a rueful smile, and then Jim will walk out the door. He won't do anything stupid, McCoy doesn't think, and he won't bear a grudge. They'll dodge this bullet and everything will be fine, and all McCoy has to do is say no.

If he agrees, on the other hand...he has no idea how it will play out. Jim always keeps him guessing from the moment he gets on board. Over time Jim has reshaped the contours of every boundary McCoy ever thought he had, and just when McCoy thinks he's done, he's hit the limit -- Jim will press him in some new way, stretch him and mold him yet again to make him fit in whatever dark corner Jim wants to explore next.

McCoy believed he knew who he was, the day he met Jim.

Jim turned out to have other ideas.

And at this point, McCoy can't argue with them. He stands in a smooth push and peels his shirt over his head, tosses it onto the floor right at Jim's feet. "We're talking about this later," he says flatly.

Jim doesn't even bat an eyelash in acknowledgment. All he does is pluck a small tube of lubricant from his pocket and play it back and forth between his hands as he holds McCoy's gaze calmly and waits.

McCoy shakes his head in exasperation -- at himself, at Jim, at his long string of shamefully self-interested capitulations in this game of theirs -- and drops his pants and kicks them free. His cock bobs, well on its way to catching up to the surge of lust coursing through his body and making his skin crawl with heat. "Well?" he rasps. "What do you want?"

"I want you quiet," Jim says. McCoy's teeth click as he snaps his mouth shut and Jim shoulders himself off the wall and strides forward, sets the lube on McCoy's desk. He flicks his gaze down at McCoy's filling cock, and when he looks back up McCoy is sure he sees just a flash of vulnerability behind the glass of Jim's eyes.

Or maybe that's just wishful thinking, a last ditch grasp at something akin to...not hope, not exactly.

Reassurance. Something a long time coming that still hasn't arrived, not quite yet. Jim slides a palm up his chest and behind his neck to drag him in, and for that briefest second again McCoy thinks there's something unexpectedly soft and hesitant about the press of Jim's mouth to his, just the slightest hold of nothing but _connection_ before Jim digs his fingers in hard and licks McCoy's mouth open with an insistent lewdness. "I want," he breathes, "for you to do whatever I tell you to."

McCoy closes his eyes and leans into Jim, hisses quickly through his teeth as Jim's free hand curls around his cock and holds it in a loose, still grip. Jim tongues lazily at the indentation beneath his lower lip. "You know I will," McCoy grits out. "Jim -- "

"Shut up, I said," Jim interrupts. There's nothing mean about it, simply a matter-of-fact order. His mouth seals back over McCoy's and this time he bites, teeth dragging in a tight scrape that makes McCoy focus more on the pain than on the slow pump of Jim's hand firming his erection. McCoy's hands clench into fists at his sides.

After all this time, he knows better than to touch before Jim invites it. Jim's kiss is still an indecisive tease, an aggravating alternation of demanding sweeps of his tongue and bruising digs of his teeth, on and on until he has McCoy panting, until he has McCoy thrusting slowly into his hand. "There," he finally says, with smug satisfaction. He slaps lightly at McCoy's cock. "Edge of the bed, on your knees."

McCoy sways on his feet, then moves to obey. It tells him what to expect, at least, the approach Jim is taking. He kneels on the low surface of the mattress and listens to Jim taking his time, knowing that each rustle of clothing is bringing him that much closer to getting what Jim is about to go out of his skin to give. When it comes, the bare, hot press of Jim's body along his back is no surprise, nor is the hook of Jim's arm around his neck -- support and warning all at once. Jim's fingers press, slick and unerring, against his ass. He rubs light circles that make McCoy squirm the wrong way from the edge of stimulation.

Then he tightens his arm and pushes both fingers in at once.

McCoy bucks forward with a sharp cry. The sudden stretch is a surprise more than anything else, and the slight pain is nothing he can't easily relegate to the back of his mind. "Jim," he groans. "Jim, fuck, just -- this one damn time could you just -- "

"Just what?" Jim's voice is calm and almost disinterested. Almost, but for the catch of tension McCoy can always pick up when it makes an appearance. He works his fingers deep, prying McCoy open quickly in a pale mimicry of the even thicker, more insistent invasion McCoy knows is to come.

"Fuck me," he spits out, breath rasping under the cinch of Jim's forearm against his windpipe.

Jim pauses. "Is that what I'm supposed to do?" he finally asks tightly. "Answer me. I've bent you over and _fucked_ you more times than I can count, Bones -- where the hell has that gotten us?"

McCoy strains against Jim's arm, the hard, twisting plunge of Jim's fingers driving him forward despite himself. "Here," he groans. "It's gotten us here, Jesus, Jim, where is it you want to _be_?"

A long silence, broken only by the McCoy's quiet grunts punctuating each brush against his prostate. Jim eases off slowly, then stills entirely. "Somewhere else," he mumbles, and his fingers slip out and his arm slithers away. "I'm not going to fuck you."

McCoy falls forward onto his hands and groans. "Goddamn cockteasing little son of a _bitch_ ," he snarls.

Jim's hand smacks sharply, without warning, against his ass. "You're fucking me this time."

The reality of it, the firm statement of fact, hits McCoy harder than any slap ever could.

He's never tried to fool himself about what he and Jim do with each other. _To_ each other and possibly even for each other, either, in the rare moments when he's in the mood for that sort of honesty. He's never bothered thinking he even understands the half of it; he just goes with the simplest truth that resounds for him each time he wakes and doesn't allow himself to reach for the emptiness on the other side of his bed, that he and Jim have a friendship carved out of the isolation of their ruined lives.

It's an unpredictable beast of a thing, to be taken as it comes.

Which is why he said nothing the first time Jim palmed his cheek and kissed him possessively in front of God and their bartender, and why he didn't protest later when Jim sought no permission before pushing clumsy fingers into his ass, before fucking him with an even more appalling lack of grace or coordination.

He just took it. He knew perfectly well that he was forcing Jim to take his silence acceptance in return -- and never has been able to decide if that was actually kinder than the fist to the jaw he suspects Jim of being perpetually braced against. He let Jim have what he wanted, that time and every time after, let Jim work out myriad ways of testing him and pushing him and demanding more than he'd ever given to another person before in his life.

All he could ever think to do was make sure that in the cold light of day, nothing was ever different. An unspoken rule between them, that there was no part and parcel to the rough, filthy fucks Jim wanted or -- or needed, that none of it had place outside the strict confines of each encounter.

Another unspoken rule: Jim had no interest in getting fucked in kind. Which was fine by McCoy; Jim never failed to wield a deft hand and a sinful mouth in the end, and McCoy's felt no need to demand anything Jim didn't feel like offering up.

And still, the surprise of it is mostly that Jim is still capable of _surprising_ him at all. He'd thought himself immune to it at this point. He lets himself collapse onto his side and watches, frowning, as Jim climbs onto the bed and sprawls in casual disarray with his head on a pillow. "Well?" Jim prompts, an edge of demand in his voice.

McCoy swallows hard and palms the tube off the blankets before crawling slowly between Jim's brazenly spread legs. Jim gazes down at him through his lashes, cool as a cucumber, but his hands shake once McCoy squeezes out a stream of lube and he reaches to draw his own legs up. "I've done this before, you know," Jim says mildly.

"Bully for you," McCoy mutters. Reassurances aside, he's still far more cautious in his approach to stretching Jim open, easing in a finger at a time while he just tries not to _think_ of the close, hot clutch of Jim's body and how it's going to feel around his cock. Jim lets him in easily, relaxed and accepting and breathing deep and steadily, and McCoy comes to realize that what tension he has is _anticipation_ , fluttering through him and making him damn near vibrate for it. "Jim," he says softly.

Jim lets his thighs drop over the doubled-up lengths of McCoy's legs and levers himself up on his arms, reaching when he can to grasp McCoy's shoulder and haul himself all the way up for a kiss. McCoy slips his arms around Jim's waist and palms his back, hitches him in tightly. Jim rocks smoothly into the press of their cocks between them. "Help me," he mutters, trying to leverage himself up.

The second he cottons on, McCoy does what he can to lift Jim while gasping into the distraction of Jim's hungry mouth and fumbling to angle and guide himself. The tight clasp of Jim's body, sliding down over him, enveloping him, is worse even than he'd imagined -- a heart-stopping, breath-stealing sort of revelation of a thing that tears up his spine and momentarily shorts out his ability to think, and just makes Jim groan and bite his lip. "That feel good?" Jim whispers. "Finally sticking it to me everything you ever thought it would be?"

McCoy delivers a sharp bite of his own, one that startles a flash of a grin from Jim just before McCoy tips him back and presses him down into the mattress. His weight presses his cock deep into Jim and he shifts, gathers Jim's legs in his arms and sinks even deeper. "Gettin' there," he manages.

He pulls back and rocks back in. Jim's face twists in a grimace that clears quickly as McCoy shifts them both, finds a better angle. "Yeah, _fuck_ , come on."

"Hold your damn horses," McCoy growls. He's a man of habit and he's not inclined to change his preferences simply because Jim has problems with impulse control. He drags his hips back once more, slowly, in time with the drag of his teeth across Jim's jaw. "You'll take it however I decide to give it to you."

He underestimates Jim's determination to have his way. Jim wrenches one leg free in a flex of strength, then the other, clamps his thighs tight along McCoy's sides. He rolls them as easily as if he were executing a tactical move, and McCoy's cock slips out but Jim just pushes up onto his knees and reaches back, guides it back into place and sinks down with a deep groan. His chest heaves and his abs ripple with a tremor of reaction as he comes flush against McCoy, and McCoy finds all he can do is watch, slack-jawed, while Jim begins to rise and fall steadily.

When he finds the right angle, the perfect roll of his hips to keep McCoy's cock sliding smoothly into him, he picks up speed and fucks himself rapidly, fingers kneading at McCoy's chest. "I'll take it like _this_ ," he gasps, staring at McCoy, eyes glazed, lids fluttering. "Want you...want you to, Bones, you should do it like this-- "

With a harsh noise McCoy grasps Jim's hips and lifts, up and forward, pulling Jim off and shoving him to the side. Jim hisses with irritation but cooperates with McCoy manhandling him over onto his stomach, thrusts his ass in the air. McCoy digs his thumbs into muscled flesh to spread Jim apart and hovers, poised, the head of his cock just barely pressing in.

"I think _you_ should tell me what you're really fucking _after_ for once, Jim," he snaps.

Jim's fingers curl, twisting fistfuls of the blanket covering the bed. "Fuck me," he demands.

McCoy grits his teeth. "Tell me. Tell me what you _want_."

"I want you to fuck me!" Jim pushes back hard, forcing himself onto McCoy's cock with a wrench of noise. Annoyance surges through McCoy and he uses his weight, and a snap of his hips, to shove Jim back forward, smashing his face against the pillow. "Fuck -- _fuck_. Yeah, want that, give me -- want to make it work," Jim suddenly bursts out. "I don't want to get it wrong anymore, Bones."

McCoy freezes just as his hand settles on the back of Jim's neck to keep him down. He keeps it moving instead, a calming sweep down Jim's spine. Muscles twitch and shudder in its wake. "Jim," he says firmly. "Jim, are you -- are you talking about that damn test or...us?"

"Test is rigged," Jim mumbles. "I'm sure of it. I just have to figure it out."

"...and me?"

Pushing up onto his elbows, Jim tries to take control again, but McCoy grips his hips and bows his back down and rocks shallowly into him. "Answer me, Jim."

"Fuck me, Bones," Jim retorts snidely. "I did ask first, you know."

With a sneer, McCoy relents and gives him several swift, hard thrusts. "You didn't ask at all," he snaps. Jim drops his head and laughs softly, shifts into a long groan as McCoy leans over him and works his hips in steady rolls, cock driving firmly in. "You goddamn _fool_ , Jim, that's all you ever had to do here, open your mouth and --"

Jim twists his torso so hard McCoy's sides ache in sympathy, and hooks his arm back to wrap around McCoy's ribcage and anchor himself. "Harder," he grunts, and kisses McCoy messily. "Bones, please, wanna feel you."

Jim will be sore tomorrow, McCoy's heavy slump holding his stretch. McCoy doesn't care. He tears desperately at Jim's mouth, lips and tongue and teeth, and fucks into him hard. Only when Jim starts seeming distracted by the awkward position does he bother yanking one of Jim's legs up to fold against his chest, pushing Jim onto his side and straddling his other leg while he surges in.

And Jim just clings to him and takes every rough thrust with smooth jerks of his body and muffled, accepting moans. "Bones," he huffs. "Bones, more, c'mon - whatever you want, _take it_ , I can do this right, I swear I can."

McCoy's orgasm rips out of him, stuttering his rhythm so that he jerks unevenly into Jim, cock pulsing erratically. At the same time something settles in him, something he hadn't realized had _needed_ settling. "You already _are_ ," he mutters roughly, riding out the last of it. He kisses away Jim's soft sound of protest, keeps kissing him as he eases Jim onto his back and catches his cock in a firm grip, a demanding tug. "You can't get it wrong with me, Jim, there is no goddamn _wrong_ for you with me -- come on, let go, let it go, nothing you do's gonna screw us up, just _come_ for me --"

Jim tips his head back and gasps and comes hard, right on cue.

McCoy realizes, with a start, that it's the first time he's ever seen Jim's face like this, slack and dazed with pleasure, completely free of anything else.

He doesn't have the foggiest damn clue what to do with that.

Jim steps in to take care of it. He meets McCoy's eyes and smiles lazily, _himself_ in an easy way that McCoy is also not used to seeing once their clothes come off. "Nothing, huh?"

"Well, you could keep talking," McCoy mutters dryly. He settles down on Jim and noses at his jaw. Jim rubs his back idly, fingers sliding through a light sheen of sweat. "So really. You okay?"

Jim doesn't so much as tense a single muscle. "Better now," he admits quietly. "Thanks."

"Yeah," McCoy mutters. "Don't mention it." After a long silence, he rolls away and stares at the ceiling. "You want to stay?"

Dropping his head to the side, Jim stares at him. McCoy can see him chewing his lip out of his peripheral vision. "Yes," Jim finally says. "That cool?"

McCoy turns his head to meet Jim's steady, open gaze.

"If you steal the covers," he says flatly, "you sleep on the floor."


End file.
